Class 




Book J53_C^_^ 



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COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. 




Photd l.iy Oibson, Sykes & Fowler, Chicago. 




A CONCORD OF SWEET NOTES 



BY 
LEON M. LINDEN 



With a Preface by Charles J. O'Malley, 
Poet and Editor 



FIRST EDITION 



III 



J. S. HYLAND & CO., CHICAGO 
1908 



JLiBRARY of C0N6RS3S, 
Two Copies Rect;iv>4.i 

FEB 8 1J08 

^Oepyri/fW. tntry 

iCLASS/4 XXc. *^o 
COPY a. 



'P^35Z3 









Copyright 190S 

BY 

LEON M. LINDEN. 



To 

MY DEAR FRIENDS 

As a most humble token of loce and respect 

these poems are inscribed 

in all sincerity 

by 

LEON M. Linden. 

Aurora, III., January, 1908 



CONTENTS. 



Foreword 11 

Introduction 15 

The Violin 27 

The Visitant 30 

Song of the Pond Lilies 32 

Age and Youth 36 

To A Meadow Blue-Bell 37 

Only One Star 39 

Discontent 41 

Christmas Morn 43 

A Song of Sincerity 45 

Forlorn 47 

The Novel 49 

Enchantment 52 

When Spring Is Near 53 

Secrets of the Deep 55 

7 



8 Contents. 

A Father's Sorrow 58 

Love Everywhere 60 

The Awakening 63 

The Unheeded Prophet 65 

Dost Thou Remember 69 

The Curse of Wealth 73 

Dreamland 79 

The Silent Night 82 

A Stroll through Life 83 

For Ne'er Shall We Return 87 

In Memoriam 95 

Longing 97 

Memory 100 

The Token 101 

The Dying Harpist 104 

All Souls' Day 107 

The Toiler Ill 

Resurrection 113 

Lachryjiae 116 

To a Little Boy 118 

Onward 125 



Contents. 9 

Wireless Telegraphy 127 

My Childhood Days 130 

America 132 

Remorse 134 

Duty Before Pleasure 137 

My Little Friend, the Stove 139 

Ungratefulness 144 

New- Year 145 

The Approach 147 

The Invitation 150 

Nature's Song 152 

To the Moon 154 

To Music 156 

Contemplation 158 



FOREWORD. 

Wherever he exists the true poet is a dawn- 
builder. Possessing creative genius he sits 
among his ideals shaping "the light that never 
was on sea or land," making white mornings for 
the race of men. Because he moulds his dreams 
in beauty he is not less an apostle of truth. He 
knows that still must the majority of mankind 
be led into the inner temple of truth by the 
voice of beauty, just as, according to the an- 
cient legend, the children of Hamelin were led 
entranced by the marvelous playing of the Pied 
Piper. The province of the poet is to fashion 
beauty-worlds supremer than those already 
known to earth, singing of them in strains that 
will not perish, and thus lead the souls of men 
to the Eternal Beauty, who is also the Eternal 
Truth. 

To-day we hear on every side that an appre- 
ciation of poetry is dying — that the songs a 
poet sings are sung unheard — that the books 
11 



12 Foreword. 

he publishes remain unbought. In the same 
breath we are told that this is an age of culture ; 
that never has human knowledge been so ad- 
vanced since time began. In our own country 
this claim is made daily. Still, if we analyze 
this alleged culture, shall we find the claim well- 
based? There are many universities teaching 
biology, philosophy, psychology and other 
things, yet when has there been an age in which 
so much of error darkened the minds of men.'' 
Everywhere there is much probing, but how few 
are finding the truth.'' Why.'* Beyond question, 
owing to the fact that many among us, some of 
whom occupy positions in which they could prove 
helpful, deliberately slight such artificers in 
beauty as poets, painters, sculptors and musi- 
cians. Look back to that period in which the 
great Church held out the hand of a helpful 
Mother to such gifted children of hers as Da 
Vinci, Michael Angelo, Raphael, Dante, Tasso, 
Petrarch, Murillo and similar, and the conclu- 
sion is almost irresistible that the Ages of Beauty 
were also the Ages of Faith. If there were 
greater love of Christian beauty in the world 
to-day there would be likewise greater love of 



Foreword. 13 

Christian truth. Bleak materialism lies at the 
base of most of the modern errors recently 
condemned. 

In issuing this volume Father Linden is simply 
following in the footsteps of Catholic poets of 
other days. True poet and true priest, it is his 
hope to aid in shaping a holier dawn, clothing 
the truth he has in the garments of beauty, yet 
knowing that she is not less the truth. Than 
the present, there has never been a time in which 
it was more imperative that a Catholic poet 
should speak, and than the present there has 
never been an age when it was more imperative 
that he should be heard. Though young, Father 
Linden has long been a fashioner of sweet notes, 
and he has, I believe, the distinction of being 
the first Catholic of his race, in this country, to 
publish a volume of original poetry written in 
English. Sylvester Viereck is of German birth, 
but he is not a Catholic. A professed Agnostic, 
he sneers openly at Christianity and produces 
work in which sin is lauded and base flesh deified. 
And yet his books are bought and praised, their 
author thus encouraged to continue his self-ap- 
pointed labor of sowing unfaith. Obviously, 



14 Foreword. 

Christian people are bound in duty to remove 
the danger of this propaganda of materialism 
by supporting Christian literary producers when 
these appear with works worthy of support. 
Each of us can aid in bringing back the Ages 
of Faith by filling the world with Christian 
beauty, which, after all, is 4;he splendor of Chris- 
tian truth — the aurora that glads the dawn 
before the sun appears. 

It is not claimed for Father Linden's poetry 
that it is without flaws. He is an artist with- 
out leisure to chisel and polish. A priest who 
toils in his parish can sing only when oppor- 
tunity comes, and subject to many interruptions; 
yet the poems in this collection show that he is 
a true singer and that in time greater songs 
may be expected. Few young poets of to-day 
give such distinct promise of splendid work in the 
future. An hour unquestionably shall arrive in 
which he will be nationally known as the poet- 
priest of Illinois. His soul is close to the eternal 
verities, and we know of old that — 

"What 's excellent. 
As God lives, is pennanent." 

Chaeles J. O Malley. 



INTRODUCTION. 

Step after step the poet has ascended the 
ladder that leads to immortality, and from his 
pedestal of glory he sends forth the rays that 
have illumined an unenlightened world. Cen- 
turies gone by have lived and gloried in the echo 
of his song that spead over the world like the 
music of Nature in one long and brilliant 
harmony. But how many of our "enlightened 
age" have experienced the sweetness of his 
melody .^^ To be honest, the outspoken verdict 
of the general reading public seems to disqualify 
him for the exalted place he holds in literature. 
Is he not the most despised, the most ridiculed 
literary artist? Who recognize in him one of 
the most potent factors in the universal progress 
of mankind? He is indeed a unique creation, 
so much different from other men, a bird with 
so many odd colors. Some think the poet a 
man with an abnormal brain, a monomaniac, a 
slothful dreamer, one sick with frenzy, half- 
15 



16 Introduction. 

witted, one who cannot deliberate in logical form, 
an unpracticed man, a fit subject for derision 
in countless caricatures. Very few outside of 
the really high-minded care to make friends 
with the poet, and the natural result is, that his 
works are carefully stored in the deposit-vaults 
of oblivion. 

Despite the fact that people in our enlight- 
ened age cast aside his intimate friendship, it 
ever remains true that the poet is, was and ever 
has been the greatest in the field of literature. 
The Royal Prophet David was a poet and a real 
king; was there a greater genius in the litera- 
ture of Judaism, a more talented man? Homer 
and Sophocles were the idols of a nation ; Horace 
and Ovid were read with eagerness ; Goethe, 
Schiller, Shakespeare and poets of other na- 
tions have perhaps done more for the education 
of men than many of our schools and universi- 
ties. Poets have been leaders of the spirit of 
their times and educators of the public; they 
have led nations through the fierce array of 
battles to glorious victory through the inspiring 
melodies of their songs; they have refined and 
elevated mankind to the noblest ideals of moral 
and intellectual progress through the fragrant 



Introduction. 17 

incense of their principles and teachings. 
Truly, we have no such great men as the masters 
of the past, but has the modern poet no greater 
claim than that of a mere existence. Should 
not the singing-bird of today be heard because 
its ancestors were more inspiring? Are all poets 
impostors.'' Are all their works an illusion and 
an enigma without solution.'' 

Many of us are educated to think in no other 
way than through the light of material prog- 
ress; we find it extremely difficult to elevate 
our minds and hearts to Elysian heights, to the 
realms of spiritual joy, to the noblest ideals 
expressed and almost materialized in Music, 
Painting and Poetry, in the sweet strains of 
harmony, in the dexterous stroke of the brush 
and the mighty flash of the pen. How many 
of us see the idea of the painter.-* How many 
are there who appreciate the grandeur of classic 
music? And more so, how many understand 
the dignity and real beauty of a fine poem? Our 
headlong progress, our overdeveloped sensual 
instinct augmented through a culpably careless 
education of the artistic temperament are un- 
doubtedly the approximate causes for the cold 
and heartless reception of the art of Music, 



18 Introduction. 

Painting and Poetry. We clamor for the "real 
stuff," for something that appeals to the senses 
alone; the gratification of the mind and heart 
seems to be a matter of secondary importance. 
These are indeed harassing indictments for our 
enlightened age. Nevertheless we may safely 
predict that a future generation, more closely 
educated to the ideals of life, will welcome the 
most intimate sisters, Music, Painting and 
Poetry as the only interpreters of things human 
and divine, of all that is great in God and man. 
And what the poet says of Music, is true of 
Painting and Poetry : 

"He, who hath no Music in his ears, 

Nor is not moved in concord of sweet notes. 

Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils ; 

The motions of his heart are dull as night, 

And his affections dark as Erebus — 

Let no such man be trusted." 

— SJiakespeare. 

You cannot separate one from the other with- 
out making them orphans. 

The poet is a noble man, not that others are 
in any way inferior to him in things truly 



Introduction. 19 

human. He is not a demigod amongst men, but 
he is indeed a messenger of God and an inter- 
preter. He possesses a psychology of his own, 
more intricate and more developed' along certain 
lines than that of the average man; he has a 
heavenly gifted intellect, a faculty of keen per- 
ception ; his visual angle is more comprehensive ; 
his senses are more capable of being affected 
by minute exterior influences ; they are similar 
to a fine violin whose strings respond to the most 
delicate touch of an artist; they are like a sen- 
sitized photographic plate, acting in the hun- 
dredth part of a second when subjected to the 
influences of light; the picture that falls upon 
the retina of his mind is perfect in details, 
teeming with all the light and color that lend 
life to objects. The poet is not confined nor 
shackled to this earth; besidec penetrating the 
essence and the intricate details of the exterior 
world, he ventures to scale the ladder that leads 
into the realms of heavenly glory. Prosaic peo- 
ple are limited through myopia, but the poetic 
nature peers through a powerful telescope into 
regions unknowm. The poet is a philosopher 
and an inventor, a creator and a transformer, 
a prophet, a musician and a painter. He is 



20 Introduction. 

born, like all poets and is the gift of God to 
mankind for the benefit of mankind. 



"Poetry is itself a thing of God ; 

He made his prophets poets ; and the more 
We feel of poesie do we become 

Like God in love and power, — under-makers." 

— Bailey. 



Thank God, this world is replete with poets. 
It is a gross error when we presume there are 
no poets outside of those who have given evidence 
of their genius through literary effusions. Are 
not many of us infatuated with the beauties and 
grandeur of Nature, with the romance and love 
of life, with tender sympathies for the weakness 
of our fellowmen? And yet we are unable to 
clothe our thoughts in the garb and life-like 
form of words. But the poet who stands in 
the lime-light of literary splendor is the man 
who has a message to deliver. 

The poet is a superior being, not that he is 
a spiritual being, but one who has opened a 
world of spiritual light in a world of material 
existences. 



Introduction. 21 

"Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, 
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares — 

The poets ! who on earth have made us heirs 
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays !" 

— Wordsworth. 

The poet is a seer, transcending v/ith his 
elastic imagination the horizon of this earth 
up to the portals of idealism. He is continually 
bent on seeing the quintessence of things, of 
analyzing, of creating new forms from anti- 
quated substances, thereby leading us on to a 
more comprehensive understanding of our 
spiritual and material life. A painting cannot 
possess the genuine qualities of art if it portray 
the mere exterior and objective life of a subject ; 
it must necessarily embody the spiritual and 
the material which the painter, as an observer 
depicts on the canvas. We may say the same 
of the poet: 

"Poets, like painters, thus unskilled to trace 
The naked nature and the living grace, 

With gold and jewels cover every part, 

And hide with ornaments their want of art. 

True wit is nature to advantage dressed. 

What oft was thought, but ne'er so well ex- 
pressed." — Pope. 



22 Introduction. 

The poet is not only a painter but also a 
musician. The musician is the messenger of 
harmonious sound with its hundredfold revela- 
tions that play on the sympathies of men. The 
musician will strike a responsive chord in many 
a heart; to others, again, his appeal will be 
fruitless. He must cater to all temperaments, 
and the greater his ability to sing to all and 
appeal to individual hearts, the greater the 
musician. He must be able to arouse sympathy 
which is universal, just like the human voice 
that is able to elicit a corresponding note when 
sung into the body of a violin. The true poet 
is a musician, because his message is real song 
and magnificent harmony : 

"The varying verse, the full resounding line. 
The long majestic march, and energy divine. 

— Pope. 

The poet then is simultaneously musician and 
painter, a creature of a noble race. Though he 
is born by the grace of God, his exterior often 
betrays his interior convictions, for he is human 
like all men. Though a goodly number of poets 
have been atheists, pantheists and materialists. 



Introduction. 23 

disseminating principles of iniquity, it proves 
but this, that in teaching false doctrines and 
offering incense to the god of lust and evil, they 
have utterly failed to fulfill their true mission, 
for poetry has been, is, and ever will be — 
Truth : 

"Unjustly poets we asperse; 

Truth shines the gladder clad in verse, 
And all the fictions they pursue 

Do but insinuate what is true." 

— Swift. 

"From his chaste Muse employed her heaven- 
taught lyre 
None but the noblest passions to inspire, 
Not one immoral, not one corrupted thought, 
One line, which dying, he could wish to blot." 

— Lyttelton. 

And where is the godless poet who has not at 
times given vent to a concord of sweetest notes, 
singing of the greatness of God and holy things ? 

The poet loves mankind and all things created. 
He is truly human, for his smiles are broad ; his 
passion burning and intense; his anger is mad- 
ness, but there is alwavs reason in his madness: 



24 Introduction. 

"For that fine madness still he did retain, 
Which rightly should possess a poet's brain." 

— Drayton. 

his love is delicate, sincere, comprehensive and 
passionate, ready for sacrifice; his joy is 
jubilant, his sympathy genuine; his glory is 
triumphant and his sorrow compassionate; he 
is amongst men the most human. There is noth- 
ing great or small, he sees it in its natural light 
and emblazons it with the spark of poetic genius. 
The tiny flower of the field, in his eye, is a crea- 
tion most wonderful; he observes its life, its 
motley colors and breathes its tender fragrance ; 
the grass, the fields, the rivers, the forests, the 
mountains and the entire animal kingdom call 
to him with the stentorian voice of Nature, ask- 
ing him to sing a concord of sweet notes in honor 
of their Creator; the child, with its great big, 
blue eyes, speaks to the poet with the language 
of sweetness and angelic purity; the maiden's 
smiles and beauty demand his love and admira- 
tion; the muscular youth with his strength and 
manliness calls for his praise, and the decrepid 
old man makes him meditate on the frailty of 
human nature and the life to come. Everything 



Introduction. 25 

speaks to the poet, and everything is material 
for an appropriate message to mankind. 

And so it is that each poet will sing his own 
concord of sweet notes, knowing, that: 

"Of all those arts in which the wise excel, 
Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well; 

No writing lifts exalted man so high 
As sacred and soul-moving poesy." 

— Sheffield. 

Then: 

"Go boldly forth, my simple lay. 
Whose accents flow with artless ease, 
Like orient pearls at random strung." 

— Sir W. Jones. 

January, 1908. The Authoe. 



A CONCORD OF SWEET NOTES 

THE VIOLIN. 

I heard a voice; it rang, it rang! 

Like angels' melody it sang 

A song I never heard before — 

Not once before. 

'Twas like the breath of God; it flowed 

Straightway from heaven's open road 

Into my throbbing heart — 

Into my heart. 

'Twas like a dream; methought I dreamed 

A dream, and earth and heaven seemed 

To change their natural lights — 

Their natural lights. 

I heard the voice, so pure, so pure, 

A voice from heaven — I am sure — 
27 



28 The Violin. 

Could sing Ro sweeter song — 

No sweeter song. 

It came as soft as Summer's breeze, 

That whispered in the sleeping trees 

A melody from leaf to leaf — 

From leaf to leaf. 

Then louder, louder, louder still, 

I heard its trembling echo fill 

With passion's burning fire and rage — 

With passion's rage, 

Until it slowly died away; 

Then, taking up a softer lay. 

The weeping voice grew sad and low — 

Grew sad and low. 

It sang a song of a broken heart, 

Whose wornout cords were torn apart 

By sorrow's deep, consuming pain — 

By sorrow's pain. 

It carried me away, that strain. 

Into the homes of tears and pain, 

The which I never felt before — 

Not once before. 



The Violin. 29 

Then once again the voice grew soft; 

Like nightingale's it rose aloft 

And sang the song of purest love — 

Of purest love. 

No human tongue did ere unfold 

The depth of love so true and bold, 

The joys and pains of human love — 

Of human love. 

I heard that voice; it rang, it rang! 

Like angels' melody, it sang 

A song I never heard before — 

Not once before. 

Oh Violin, dear Violin! 

An earthly thing, but heaven within; 

Sweet Music's noble, glorious king — 

The Violin! 



go The Visitant. 



THE VISITANT. 

On the wayside, near the city, 
All alone, no one to pity, 
Sat a mother with her child 
Dying of a fever wild. 

To her bosom close she pressed him — 
Passionately she caressed him; 
Death would tear him from her heart, 
And she could not from him part. 

Love, oh Love, is there another 
Half so sweet as that of mother, 
Half so pure, or half so true, 
As a mother's love for you! 

Choked the mother in her anguish — 
Death, it seemed, would surely vanquish ; 
But her throbbing heart did pray — 
Nothing could her faith dismay. 



The Visitant. SI 

And she prayed, still persevering, 
God would grant her prayer a hearing. 
Could he take her only boy? 
Mother, God will bring thee joy! 

Little child, thy mother's weeping, 
For cold death is slyly creeping 
Up into thy lifeless eye! 
Mother, pray ! He will not die. 

Unperceived, a stately stranger 
Came, and saw the child in danger; 
"Mother," said He, "do not weep. 
He is only fast asleep." 

O'er his head His hands now hovered; 
Instantly the child recovered. 
All the mother humbly said: 
"Lord, my God!" The vision fled. 



Song of the Pond Lilies. 



SONG OF THE POND LILIES. 

White as drifts of blinding snow-flakes 
Falling through the frozen air, 

White as fleecy clouds, when light breaks 
On the noonday heavens fair. 

White, as all the calm sea*s surface, 
Bending forth, an arched blade, 

When the purple heaven's solace 
Covers it with rolling shade. 

So we lilies of the water. 

Floating on the billows gray, 
Only love the humble color 

Of the sunshine's spotless ray. 

We behold each happy brother 

In the waters of the pond. 
And we trouble not the other 

Flowers on the shore beyond. 



Song of the Pond Lilies. 

Zephyr whispers many stories 
Of those flowers, strewn about, 

How the one the other worries 
With contempt and pride aloud. 



And she tells us of the dolors 
Of these flowers on the plain, 

All for envy of their colors — 
Things which lilies must disdain. 



For we lilies of the water. 

Floating on the billows gray, 

Only love the humble color 

Of the sunshine's spotless ray. 



Naughty flowers of the meadows. 
Come, and see us in the pond! 

Learn to love your motley fellows, 
And be gentle, and be fond ! 



S4« Song of the Pond Lilies, 

Come, behold us in the waving 
Waters, move in peace about. 

With a tender-hearted craving 
Seeking joy and love devout! 



Note, how one beside the other. 
Rising from our dreamless sleep. 

Sends a kiss to sister, brother. 
Floating on the glassy deep! 



When the golden hour of morning 
Peeps behind yon distant hills, 

We, our God of Love, adoring. 
Wish good morning to the rills. 



Then, awake from sleepy torpor. 
We diffuse our perfumes pure. 

And imbibe the misty vapor 
Hanging o'er the water's lure. 



Song of the Pond Lilies. 

When upon the twilight heaven 
Stealthily departs the sun, 

Leaving trails, that boldly redden 
Mountain peaks and forest's dun, 



All we lilies, softly singing 

Songs of humble words and tone. 

In our mantles then go creeping, 
Sleeping in the dusk alone. 



36 Age and Youth. 



AGE AND YOUTH. 

Youth is the prime, and age the goal of life ; 
Age is the end, and youth the prime of strife ; 
Youth is the rose that age will pluck dew-wet ; 
Age is the flower youth may perhaps not get ; 
Youth is the time to learn, whilst age is wise ; 
Age is a teacher youth must ne'er despise ; 
Age knows no joy, that youth cannot perceive; 
Youth knows no pain that age cannot relieve. 



To a Meadow Blue-Bell. 37 



TO A MEADOW BLUE-BELL. 



Little blue-bell of the meadow, 

Smiling all the day, 
Where art thou? Behind a shadow! 

Ah, how blithe and gay ! 

Never could I hurt thee darling, 

Smiling all the day; 
Do conceal that silly frowning, 

Let me with thee play ! 

Let us sing, and love each other, 

Smiling all the day; 
Like a sister and a brother 

Let us stroll away ! 



38 To a Meadow Blue-Bell. 

I will plant thee, willing flower, 

Smiling all the day, 
In an ever silent bower; 

Come, do not delay ! 

Pretty blue-bell, best of creatures, 

Smiling all the day, 
I will watch thy musing features; 

Ah, how blithe and gay ! 

And the dew-drops I will gather. 

Smiling all the day ; 
Come with me, thou shalt be gladder 

Than a rose in May ! 

Now, behold my flower growing. 

Smiling all the day; 
In her bower she is wooing 

All the time away. 



Only One Star, 



ONLY ONE STAR. 



Only one star, softly twinkling, 
Blinking in the merry skies. 

Playing, hiding, smiling, winking, 
Laughing with its youthful eyes! 



There I see thee in thy leisure. 

Peeping friendly through the night, 

Beaming in a childlike pleasure 
Rays of soft, regaling light. 



Peering through the haunted forest, 
Where the spirit-shadows roam, 

List'ning to the dead leaves' chorus 
Singing in the woodland home. 



40 Only One Star. 

And when calm the ocean, growing 
All enraptured, sleeps in love, 

Thou look'st on the mirror flowing, 
From thy haunts of peace above. 



Only one star, softly twinkling. 
Blinking in the merry skies, 

Playing, hiding, smiling, winkings 
Laughing with its youthful eyes! 



Discontent. 41 



DISCONTENT. 



Nature is a nymph of satisfaction ; 

Seldom weeps, but smiles complacently ; 
Discord finds no harbor in her action; 

'Tis contentment breeds her harmony. 

Roving winds graze on the running meadows ; 

Bending flowers breathe their tender scent; 
Virgin forests cast their slender shadows 

Undefiled, and know not discontent. 

Why then, man, thou mightiest of Nature, 
Fill thy haughty breast with discontent ? 

Trouble not thy brain with mean displeasure! 
Unfit for thee is evil sentiment. 



4^ Discontent. 

Learn to know thy earthly situation, 
Strive to understand thy future end, 

And the world that brings dissatisfaction; 
Heav'n only can thy troubles mend. 

Why then, man, thou mightiest of Nature, 
Fill thy haughty breast with discontent? 

Trouble not thy brain with mean displeasure ! 
Unfit for thee is evil sentiment. 



Christmas Morn, 43 



CHRISTMAS MORN. 

I hear the Christmas chimes a-ringing, 

A thousand angels' voices singing, 
Bringing peace unto mankind — 

Unto mankind. 
I see the lights on high out-beaming, 

Cold Luna's smile down softly gleaming, 
Streaming through the Winter night — 

The Winter night. 
The world is clad in white; and spangling 

With fiery diamonds, all a-dangling, 
Hanging on the cracking trees — 

The cracking trees. 
I hear the Merry Christmas greeting. 

And heart to heart with joy is beating. 
Beating in each happy home — 

In each glad home. 



44 Christmas Morn. 

Rough blows the cutting North wind, howling 

Through lifeless woodland, madly prowling, 
Scowling with his bitter smile — 

His bitter smile. 
But still the world is in devotion. 

And all the streets are in commotion, 
Thousands thronging to the church — 

Into the church. 
Awaken, child of melancholy! 

Today all grief is bitter folly; 
Foolish 'tis to be so sad — 

To be so sad. 
For, listen to the chimes a-ringing, 

And hear the angels' voices singing. 
Bringing peace unto thy soul — 

Unto thy soul. 



A Song of Sincerity. 45 



A SONG OF SINCERITY. 



We love the man whose actions prove 
A loyal semblance of the heart, 

Who simulates no worthy move, 
Nor counterfeits with studied art. 

We reverence him who is the same 
In soul and body, day and night. 

Whose honor glitters not in fame, 
But in Truth's permeating light. 

In cold appearance of the good 
True excellency cannot live; 

Hypocrisy is 'neath its hood, 
Reality — it cannot give. 



46 A Song of Sincerity. 

The knave may feign sweet honesty, 
The fool may play the wond'rous wise, 

Still knave and fool they'll ever be 
Though others see not their disguise. 

To seem to be — is not to be — 
A latent untruth in disguise ; 

True wisdom's in sincerity 

Which no man ever will despise. 

We love the man whose actions prove 
A loyal semblance of the heart, 

Who simulates no worthy move, 
Nor counterfeits with studied art. 



Forlorn. 47 



FORLORN. 

What wilt thou, blushing rose, alone, 

Far from thy friends, in solitude? 
Art thou perhaps an exile, cast-away, 

Dissenter from an ever peaceful home? 
Why should I find thee in this reeking land 

Enveloped in a choking atmosphere, 
Surrounded by those thorny, stubborn weeds? 

Hath long-enduring melancholy's greed 
Consumed thy youthful joyousness of heart. 

That thou hadst reason for another home? 
Or hath some cruel fiend abducted thee 

And left thee to thyself upon the way ? 
Hath Nature wreaked her vengeance on thy pride 

That set thee high above thy jealous friends? 
Perchance, a hand, all innocent. 

Hath planted thee along this lonely way, 



48 Forlorn. 

That It, in passing by, might fondle thee. 

Caress thee, kiss thy tender brow ! 
Whate'ere may be the fate that waits on thee, 

I love thee, lovely as thou art, the more. 
For pity stretches out her willing hand 

To e'en the most dejected wretch. 
When friends desert thee, I will take thee home. 

And there beloved, amidst gay pleasantry 
Of gentle flowers, thou canst bloom in joy — 

No more to be alone. 



The Novel. 



THE NOVEL. 



Late, in a silent Autumn night, 

I sat beneath an elm ; 
The stealthy glare of Luna's light 

Swept through the noiseless realm. 

It cast its slender shadows down, 
Through withered twigs it stole, 

And kissed the dying leaves that frown 
Upon cold Winter's goal. 

Some forward stars peeped through the blue 

With moistened, downcast eyes, 
For they now seemed to sorrow too 

With Nature's moaning sighs. 



60 The Novel. 

Thus, in the shifting hght of eve 

I sat in silent thought, 
Whilst Zephyr seemed intent to weave 

The net of love I sought. 



I read, and read with eager gaze 

A tragedy of yore, 
And thought, and thought with burning craze 

Of love, and love e'ermore. 



I pondered with entangled mind 
On broken hearts and love; 

I felt how treacheries unbind 
The ties of God above. 



Compassion roused a tender pain, 
Warm tears a way had found; 

I sobbed to see how love Is maimed 
And buried underground ; 



The Novel. 61 



How circumstances breed a strife 
And cause ignoble thought, 

And tear asunder love's true life 
Which human hearts have wrought. 



Oh, death unto those raven eyes, 
A death of foul disgrace 

To those that linger in disguise 
To ruin love's own ways! 



52 Enchantment. 



ENCHANTMENT. 

When Luna looks with smiling eyes 

Upon the verdant fields so gay, 
Where life-sustaining odors rise 

And mingling with the South-winds play ; 
When in the heavens' vaulted plain 

A thousand constellations shine, 
My soul unites its love and pain 

With thoughts of all that is divine. 
The moving twigs sing sleepy airs, 

And nightly spirits hover by ; 
All Nature now to rest repairs 

Excepting the illumined sky ; 
My soul now leaves these earthly realms, 

Enchanted by the godly sight ; 
Such solemn beauty overAvhelms 

My panting breast with true delight. 



When Spr'mg Is Near. 



WHEN SPRING IS NEAR. 



O lonely hours, far steeped in yearning, 
When shall ye melt beneath this gloom: 

When shall my restless spirit burning, 
Its sharp, devouring pangs entomb? 

O idle daj's, depressed with sorrow. 
Beneath the season's harshness bent. 

When shall my soul wake on the morrow 
With pleasure filled, and true content? 

Three weary months of chill have faded; 

They were but filled with emptiness; 
In dull monotony I've waded, 

Entangled by uncheerfulness. 



64 When Spring Is Near. 

But now, as though It were a river 
Pouring through some canyon deep, 

I feel some strange emotions quiver 
That wake my soul from restless sleep. 

Emotions of prophetic vision. 

How soothing are your sudden flow ! 

Can I surmise your strange commission? 
Can I your healing gush foreknow? 

Ah, good Spring is near, so sweet forever, 
Thou overload'st me with delight! 

Thy luscious waves alone can sever 
Me from this wretched Winter-plight. 



Secrets of the Deep. 55 



SECRETS OF THE DEEP. 

Great Mother Earth, so simple in design, 
Whence is thy model, if 'tis not divine. 

The noble outburst of a Mastermind, 

God's greatest handiwork for humankind! 

Behold her intricate simplicity 

Wrapped in a cloak of gorgeous majesty, 
Resplendent in eternal unity, 

In ever-truthful regularity! 

Into thy very bowels did we creep 

To learn the mechanism of thy deep; 

We traveled North and South and East and 
West, 
And yet we know thee little at our best. 



56 Secrets of the Deep. 

For though our modern science claims to know 
The shghtest motions of thy inmost heart, 

Still, treasures of great lore thou canst bestow 
And knowledge unexplored thou canst impart. 

Thy burning bosom hides a grand machinery 
Whose million wheels more true and undis- 
turbed 

In unity and wond'rous harmony 

The busy life of all this mighty world. 

Unfold to us thy books of secret lore. 

Which many centuries have sought in vain; 

Thy hundred thousand treasures, we implore, 
Thou give them to us for our happy gain ! 

Throw open unto us the bolted doors 

Protecting Wisdom's ever-sparkling fount ; 

For from its silver-bubbling water pours 

The living stream of Knowledge o'er the 
ground ! 



Secrets of the Deep. 5t 

How gladly, willingly we'd bend our knee 
To drink thy waters with an eager draught; 

'Twould lift us unto heav'nly ecstacy, 

Into the realms of God our soul would waft. 

With humble words and song we'd then pro- 
claim 

The grandeur of that sweet and holy name 
In which the secret stores of knowledge lie, — 

The name of God, above, below the sky. 



58 A Father's Sorrow. 



A FATHER'S SORROW. 



Bedded in her couch the baby lies, 

Her hands across her breast, her features 
mild; 
I hear no more her feverish cries, 

For she's gone home, my dear and only child. 

Oh, thou little babe, thou child of mine ! 

No spark of life in thee, no silent breath ; 
Around thy silken cot blessed candles shine, 

And angels chanting hold the watch of death. 

All my consolation in this life 

Is resting, gone unto her last reward, 

She whom most I loved, my tender wife, 
She is no more on earth, but with her Lord. 



A Faiher's Sorrow. 59 

Dearest child, thou, once my hope and happi- 
ness ! 
I know thy soul is now in better care ; 
When you sleep beside my wife, caress 

Her grave; give her my love — I'll soon be 
there. 

Gone is all for which I lived on earth ; 

I have no home, save in the heav'n above; 
Sacrilegious is all joy and mirth 

When those are gone our hearts did always 
love. 

Lord, my God, thou know'st a father's pain, 
A husband's sorrow for a loss so great ; 

Bring me to my wife and child again, 

How long O Lord, how long must I still wait ! 



60 Love Everywhere. 



LOVE EVERYWHERE. 



Love is the vigor of our life, 
The essense of this earthly strife, 
Our steady guide in joy and pain. 
The soul's life-blood in every vein. 

All Nature grows with sacred love; 
'Tis wrapt within the skies above; 
Yea, planted on Aurora's face, 
In her deep crimson, rosy gaze. 

It beams within the silver light 
That brightens gloomy hours of night; 
When high those flick'ring torches rise, 
Love breathes her fragr-ance in the skies. 



Love Everywhere. 61 

It murmurs with the crystal stream 
That winds low-whispering, a-dream; 
It glitters in the misty haze 
Where Helios breaks his ardent rays. 



The forest's growth, the flow'ry plains. 
Revived by cool, refreshing rains, 
Combine with love in one sweet air 
Their soft refrains, their hymns so rare. 



And glorious Nature's palace rings 
With music from the bird that sings ; 
'Tis strange, those charming notes proclaim 
The grandeur of love's honored name. 



The rolling billows snow white foam. 
From bank to bank ; for ages roam 
To break against the sandy shore, 
And yet, their thcem is love e'ermore. 



62 Love Everywhere 

love, O love, art thou so rare? 

1 find thee blooming everywhere ; 
Yes, love is universal, true, 
Abundant like God's morning dew. 



The Awakening. 63 



THE AWAKENING. 



Torn are the chains of Winter's death, 
For Spring hath risen from the grave; 

I feel the softness of her perfumed breath 
Come hke a Hving wave. 



The earth lay fettered many a night 
In Winter's grip; and oft with fear 

I lingered for the soothing light 
Of Spring with all her cheer. 



And now she's here, the fairest maid 
That ever traversed o'er the land, 

In flow'ry tresses all arrayed. 
And violets in her hand. 



64 The Awakening. 

She skips upon the moistened earth 
And blesses all the living seeds ; 

New life Is gently springing forth 
From out the waking meads. 

I hear the river murmuring, 

And robin redbreast's early song; 

The vagrant herds are bellowing, 
And on the meadow throng. 

Ah, heaven's light ! Its warming beams 
Make Mother Nature bright and fair; 

Awaken, man, from out thy dreams. 
For life is everywhere! 



The Unheeded Prophet. 65 



THE UNHEEDED PROPHET. 



Behold, secluded from the noisy streets, 

A cottage, grey with years ; 
Some long forgotten generation greets 

The workmanship it wears. 

Green mosses creep upon its sullen walls ; 

The drops of time cling round 
Its paltry stones ; the useless plaster falls 

All shattered on the ground. 

Eternal silence, undisturbed, hangs there, 

Imprisoned in the eaves; 
Weighed down by perfumes in the noiseless 
air, 

The winds play with the leaves. 



QQ The Unheeded Prophet. 

Impressed with awe, I enter at the door- 

An ancient room behold; 
Old furniture upon a knotty floor 

A century or more old. 



An aged man is studying his books, 

Reclining in a chair ; 
Deep understanding in his chiseled looks, 

All silver white his hair. 



And deep in meditation, lowly bent, 

His head upon his arm, 
His ever-ready pen gives freely vent 

To thoughts of richest charm. 



He cast the wisdom of his kingly mind 

Upon his sordid time; 
The tide of evil that his soul did find 

He heralded as grime. 



The Unheeded Prophet. 67 

He gave unto the world uncommon gain 

By struggling day and night ; 
He lived a life of penury and pain, 

Yet won he in his fight? 



His duty to advise he would fulfill, 

Seeing the needs of all ; 
He gloried truth to cure the many ill ; 

But who would list his call? 



Such is the world, the world of many days ! 

It doubts true honesty ; 
It seeks the truth in many thousand ways, 

Yet hates it bitterly. 



Holy Integrity, thou art ignored 
By fools who search for thee ! 

They are deceived in one dishonest lord 
Who lures to misery. 



(J8 The Unheeded Prophet. 

Oh Truth, we brush thy friendly words aside 

And follow dread despair ! 
We fear corruption in our headlong stride, 

But shrink not from its lair. 



Dost Thou Remember f 69 



DOST THOU REMEMBER? 



When darkness throws her mantle o'er the town, 
And through the cold and chilly air peep down 
Those legions of uncounted sentinels — 
When from yon waking tower toll the bells, 
And bid the weary seek their needful rest — 
O Solitude, there's one v.ho is thy guest, 
There's one to give thee cheerful company. 
We two shall speak of naught but poetry ; 
Tonight I'll speak to thee ; another time 
With patience I will listen to thy rhyme. 

Dost thou remember — 'twas not long ago — 
A dying Summer lived yet in the skies, 
And bade me from my melancholy rise? 
Dost thou remember, when I left my home 



70 Dost Thou Remember f 

And knew the land not where I then would roam 
To surfeit on a change of healthful air? 
Invigorating were its charms, and rare; 
'Twas in this sacred air, made holy by 
Sweet perfumes of the richest quality. 
Whose breath was Nature's scent and Nature's 

love — 
'Twas in this holy air I then did rove. 

There, in the noiseless sleep of life, I found 

A friend — the dearest friend around. 

Until those golden hours I could ne'er unfold 

]\Iy mind ; mankind for me was cold ; 

Reserved, I knew not how to breathe with ease; 

Much less, a silent crowd with wit to please; 

For me the pleasures of gay company 

Were unto then a gloomy mystery. 

But once for all I learned the wished for art 

To cast aside my fear, and to depart 

Forever from that childish bashfulnesu 

Which often caused me grave uncheerfulness. 

The number of acquaintances I made 



Dost Thou Remember ? 71 

Must needs my failing memory evade; 
But one, I will not, cannot e'er forget — 
The noblest, dearest friend I've ever met. 

O happy Solitude, whilst here alone. 

My thoughts are roaming to that distant home 

Some trifling hundred and more miles away; 

O, would that distance knew not of dela}'. 

How gladly and how willingly I'd fly 

To yonder sweet abodes of days gone by ! 

Alas ! the nimble spirit, subtile mind, 

Though time and cumbrous distance cannot bind 

Its airy flight to their Imperial yoke — 

Alas, alas ! It Is but reeking smoke 

Compared to sensible reality ! 

But still, 'twere all a dull monotony 

To leave the senses have eternal sway 

And ne'er allow the mind join in the play ; 

For next to real, the greatest joys by far 

The silent pleasures of remembrance are; 

Wherefore, what once was most the senses' joy 

Becomes Imagination's playful toy. 



72 Dost Thou Remember ? 

O Solitude, I love to ponder on 

The stem realities that long have gone. 

My friend is far away, and yet so near; 

The time dividing us — it seems a year — 

O Solitude, whilst now I rest with thee, 

Do whisper, does my friend still think of me? 



The Curse of Wealth. 73 

THE CURSE OF WEALTH. 

Unbounded riches, when abused, 

Have rendered man and life confused ; 

They harden but a noble heart 
And tear the bonds of love apart ; 

Lead man to sin and misery, 
Destruction of society. 

A wretched slave of humble mind 
More joy and happiness will find 

In utmost poverty, distress. 
In solitude and wretchedness, 

Privation, and what else ma}' be 
By all the world called misery ; 

For he is conscious of a home, 

Immortal heaven, all unknown 
To those who in a mire dwell 

Of riches and an earthly hell; 
He knows there is another shore 

Beyond the life we now deplore. 



74 The Curse of Wealth. 

Just follow me, my patient friend 
Upon my journey to the end; 

We'll enter at that marble gate, 
And there begin to investigate. 

"Ah, beauty," cries my wond'ring mind, 
"Is this real Nature, am I blind?" 



A velvet green spreads o'er the ground. 
And beds of flowers bloom around ; 

Beneath a score of stately trees 

The creeping shades play with the breeze; 

Below a fountain's colored rays 
A massive bronze of Venus bathes. 



Now let us not disturb them all 
That live inside this stately hall. 

Else we might cause unwished for pain 
And frustrate what we want to gain ; 

We'll enter as Mephisto would. 

Through bolted doors, in ghostly hood. 



The Curse of Wealth. 75 

All useful things man's thought has born 

The splendor of this home adorn; 
Silk tapestries hang o'er the door, 

And Turkish carpets deck the floor; 
The frescoed walls, by master's skill 

Admiring guests with wonder fill. 



Gay servants permeate the hall 
With noiseless step upon each call ; 

They render favors like some slaves 
That tremble when their master raves. 

But let us see the old man there, 
Reclining in a Morris-chair. 



About his face and glassy eyes 
A gloom and melancholy lies 

That tells the story of a life 
Of misery, of hardship, strife, 

Of absence of an honest peace 
All stamped upon his sallow face. 



76 The Curse of Wealth. 

He counts in numbers all the day 
To see if he has made headway ; 

And to increase his gloated purse 
The laborer becomes his curse ; 

From out his hands he wrenched the bread 
To fill liis swollen purse instead. 



He rose from poverty to gain, 
From human love to foul disdain; 

He suffered in his younger days 

From want of food, consuming fears ; 

But now, when all such woes arc gone, 
Forgotten is the poor man's home. 



Beside a beveled mirror stands 

His wife, with dainty hands, 
With well-combed hair, and lovely eyes, 

Like two bright stars, deep in the skies, 
And painted lips, enticing, sweet — 

A form divine, from head to feet. 



The Curse of Wealth. 77 

What graceful carriage, like a queen, 
And costume, that a lovesick beam 

Of sunlight dare not play about 
The silken wraps that her enshroud ! 

Yet — she's distrustful, filled with pride, 
And wicked thoughts in her abide. 



The storms of life are all a-glow 
Beneath her brow ; a walking show 

To eyes that rest upon her gaze 

As though she owned an angel's face. — 

Could you but peep into her heart, 
And study all its hideous art! 



You'd find a huge and stony vault 
Replete with misery and fault, 

The evils of a conscience bad, 
With sinful horrors in it clad; 

Yes, you would blush with scarlet shame 
To know her even by her name. 



78 The Curse of Wealth. 

And thou, poor little lad of eight, 

Had'st thou but knowledge of thy fate, 

How would thy youthful heart grow old. 
How would it shudder to behold 

The hardness of thy father's heart. 
Indifference on thy mother's part. 



They love thee not with tender joy; 

Thou art for them a living toy ; 
How could they love thee? 'twould be vain 

For when love's centered in mere gain, 
No strength can wring it from the hand 

That rules the world's unbounded land.- 



Excessive riches, when abused. 

Have rendered man and life confused ; 

They harden but a noble heart 
And break the bonds of love apart ; 

Lead men to sin and misery, 
Destruction of society. 



Dreamland. TO 



DREAMLAND. 



Eye of the night, that inspiring gleams, 

Calm, with mysterious gaze. 
Paint us grand pictures in blissful dreams, 

Lead us on unknown ways! 



Swift and momentous, as thought in flight, 
Quick, as with lightning's speed, 

Thousands of images, clear and bright. 
Flash in a single deed. 



Moments of joy and of dauntless youth 
Pass in a picturesque scene; 

Hideous phantoms and forms uncouth 
Fall upon memory's screen. 



80 Dreamland. 

Fondest affections that have grown old, 

Faces that died away, 
Gather once more when our dreams remold 

Hours so wild and gay. 



Stygian shores, in eternal night, 
Wandering shadows gleaned, 

Where the black waters of death ne'er blight- 
Dreams that we nightly dreamed. 



Nimbly we soar through a fathomless space 

Up to the heavens' height ; 
Yet, 'tis no more than a second's race, 

Vision of gorgeous light. 



Murmuring waters that ran close by, 

Pictures of dread alarm, 
Music with all her sweet melody 

Mingle in dreams that charm. 



Dreamland. 81 

Eye of the night, that Inspiring gleams, 

Calm, with mysterious gaze. 
Paint us great pictures in blissful dreams, 

Lead us upon thy ways ! 



The Silent Night. 



THE SILENT NIGHT. 

Ye diamond lights, fixed in the vaulted sky, 
Thou, silver mirror of the silent night, 
O golden streams of lovely, radiant light, 
That through the plains of heaven fly 
Like shafts into the waking human eye, 
Upon the brilliant fields of snow, so bright ; 
Ye now announce our Jesus, the Delight 
Of mankind, from the Holy Ghost on high. 
Descending on this woeful earth, through her 
The holiest and purest, greatest saint, 
Whom never stained a sin ! Rejoice therefore, 
And in your throbbing breasts let every taint 
Of sin be gone, and let all hearts adore 
In charity and meekness evermore ! 



A Stroll through Life. 83 



A STROLL THROUGH LIFE. 



Ye dainty fields of velvet green 

That clothe the cloddy earth beneath, 
Rejoice, for now Aurora's mien 

Is dawning o'er the reef! 
Wake, thou slumb'ring atmosphere. 
For the diamond-sparkling tear 
With a heavenly smile 
Lay there sleeping awhile 
To amuse and beguile 
The merry birds that gayly sing 
Melodious tunes ; with never tiring wing 
Swiftly soaring through the air, 
Greeting what is green and fair; 

A'traveling through the cloudless sky. 
And warbling as unheard they fly ; 



84< A Stroll through Life. 

And Zephyr is hugging the opening rose 
That slept in the arms of a night's repose ; 
Traversing nimbly the wood 
She glides along 
In cheerful song 
Ever in a happy mood. 

And flowing through the dew-bent lanes, 

The rippling stream its way doth guide ; 
Then, winding through the flow'ry plains 

It follows by my side, 
Never resting on its way, 
Granting me a happy day. 

List, the echoes repeat ! 
How the hours do fleet 
In this living retreat ! 
I hear an ever-thund'ring sound ; 
The running fields of Spring vibrate around. 
Glorious view ! What see I here ? 
Nature's Majesty is near! 

There bends the shimm'ring water-fall ; 
And creeping o'er the slipp'ry wall 



A Stroll through Life. 85 

In smooth running torrents it splashes below 
And falls in a chasm of watery snow. 
Sweeter than music this sight 
Which Nature's love 
Sends from above 
To content a mortal wight. 



Now scorching Phoebus breaks his rays 

Upon the roaring water-fall; 
Behold, the sea of pearl ablaze, 

Descending from the wall ; 
There the soapy foam climbs high 
As the boiling waters ply; 

There the Nymphs fill the scene. 
And the Mermaids convene 
When a mortal's unseen. — 
Now I must rest my tired limbs ; 
My mind, now crowded with some old-time 

whims — 
Mr sing o'er this sacred view. 
Meditates some hours through. 



86 A Stroll through Life. 

Behold, old Sol has turned his face 
To all that's wretched, all that's base ; 
The musical strain of the bird's thrilling tone 
Has left me, poor traveller, weak and alone. 
Nature, in thee I'll rest! 
Adieu, adieu, 
I bid to you. 
All my life in thee is blessed ! 



For Ne'er Shall We Return. 



FOR NE'ER SHALL WE RETURN. 



"Beloved son, now follow me, thy father, o'er 

the plains 
Of densest green, where timid birds, with full 

disdain, 
The thund'ring voice of evil war will hear! O 

come 
My dearest boy, for not yet has the glorious red 
Attained the eastern shores ; not yet it suffered 

from 
A mortal eye this early mom to gaze upon 
His charming garb, and greet the golden sprouts 
That usher in the day upon this sinful earth ; 
Yet rests the evening star, and sleeps with shin- 
ing eyes, 



88 For Ne'er Shall We Return. 

Which, opened for all humankind, peep down 
Upon the earth that wakens from her bed of 

dreams ; 
Like watchful sentinels the stars blaze in the skies 
And rouse in us the dreams of life and love ; be- 
hold their rays 
Serene, down yonder in the valley of the deep ! 



My child, thou hast not seen this world of misery, 

Much less, a battle's fierce array ; 

But once for all, thou shalt behold the curse of 

man 
And nation on this very day. 
Young though thou be, thou art a man in youth. 
So let not the approach of death disturb 
The calm that ever was within thy breast ; 
Fear not the sword, the gun, the streams of 

blood. 
E'en death fear not, for it may bring 
Thee everlasting glory 
And peace unto thy fatherland! 



For Ne'er Shall We Return. 89 

O sweet, it is to die in her protecting arms, 
And rest, to lie in her most fertile soil !" 



"Thy words, O dearest father, they are but too 

true; 
And make my trembling heart rejoice; 
I ne'er shall wander from thy faithful eyes 
That look upon me with far greater love 
Than all the world can give ; the morn is coming 

fast 
And soon we'll stand amongst the bravest men 
To fight for liberty." 

"Beloved son, thou mak'st my aged heart a home 
Of thy sweet charity ; and now give me thy hand, 
Thy tender hand, and place it into mine, 
That led thee on the path of righteousness ; 
Once more I gaze into thy youthful eyes. 
And they reflect me in their sparkling orbs, 
Reminding me of my past youth, that blooming 
Spring, 



90 For Ne'er Shall We Return. 

The time of innocence, and happiness and life. 
Behold, the veil of darkness is now falling off 
The sun; already peeps the dim, regenerating 

hght 
Behind yon clouds, that slowly creep along 
The unobstructed space; the solemn hour is now 

near, 
When swells the trumpet's shouting call 
Through all the ranks, and through the din of 

battle howl 
The snorting cannon, and the even step of 

soldiers falls. 
O look, there comes the glorious sun upon his 

way; 
His rays affectionately fall upon the fields, and 

greet 
The merry birds that warble in the wood; but 

oh, to see 
This fatal day, for you and me, he'll weep his 

carmine blood 
Upon this sinful race of men that welter in their 

blood! 



For Ne'er Shall We Return. 91 

O, would that God now checked his course, that 
he might not 

Behold this day, but cast a veil of darkness o'er 
his face! 

Alas, it cannot be, the Lord has all his planned 
ways! 

The trumpet blows ! Its mournful sound per- 
vades 

The soldier's breast ; the dull and measured tramp 

Falls heavily upon the shaking ground 

That heaves one great, gigantic cloud of chok- 
ing dust ; 

And yonder comes the enemy with intent to kill ; 

Come, dearest boy, O let your earthly joys now 
sleep 

An everlasting sleep, and leave thy youthful 
blood 

Once fertilize thy fatherland through death, 

For ne'er shalt thou return to kiss thy mother's 
lips, 

And ne'er shall we return to see our home again 

That now has been destroyed. 



92 For Ne'er Shall We Return. 

A cruel fate has destined us to die for liberty ; 
And as we now must die, — a death of honor — 
Let us bravely die !" 



The whistling bullets fly and strike the first, 
The foremost men ; they stagger ; there they lie ; 
Already starts the gnawing worm to drain their 

flesh ; 
Another sinks, another falls, and others take 

his place. 
Till but a heap of mortals fills the battle-field. 
The cannon spit their long, electric flames, and 

deadly steel 
Has torn disordered ranks like fibres thin. 
Devouring the fleeing victims in its course. 
All's over now; and death has won his fatal 

game; 
The field is saturated with the gore of men. 
And on the clodded soil lie broken guns and 

fire-arms ; 



For Ne'er Shall We Return. 93 

No more the snare-drum rolls ; no more the bugle 

calls ; 
No more the signal melodies ring out upon the 

ranks ; 
We hear the voice of victory a-dying on the hills, 
The victors march in glory, the vanquished 

march in shame, 
And on the field of death eternal silence reigns. 



O war, thou ghastly fiend, as hungry as a wolf ! 

Thine eyes are ravenous, thy foaming fangs 
mean death; 

Thy stomach's large enough to feed on all hu- 
manity ; 

Thou art a hideous monster, flaming dragon of 
the night, 

A beastly plague that ravishes mankind ; 

Thou makest man unlike to God, but more unto 

A beast of prey, a tiger in despair! 

Away from us, O dreadful war! Place not thy 
feet 



94 For Ne'er Shall We Return. 

Upon this peaceful soil, for thou art evil, 
Thou art wrong, most dreadful in result ! 
O fly, O fly, thou monster, evil war. 
Into the everlasting darkness of eternity ! 



In Memoriam, 95 



IN MEMORIAM. 

Sad and dreary sank the heavens, 
Low and weary ; onward passed 

Shifting clouds as black as ravens, 
Plowing through the whining blast. 



Hundred raging winds were wrestling. 
Fighting in the warring skies, 

All around the spires nestling 

Howling forth with screaming cries. 



Through the streaming torrents splashing. 
Not a beaming star shone forth ; 

And the rain's incessant slashing 
Cut upon the frosted earth. 



96 ^w Memoriam. 

Mad, the crushing winds were calling, 
On the gusliing torrents came, 

Till a prime of snow-flakes falling, 
Mingled with the icy rain. 



Black and drowsy hung the moaning 
Night; arousing phantoms flew 

Through the sleepless hours, roaming 
In the dark to me and you. 



Slowly creeping o'er the city 

Came that weeping twilight gray ; — 
Someone whispered in deep pity: 

"He's dead;" all lips began to pray. 



Then the doleful bell's sad tolling 
In a woeful dirge did peal ; 

Death had reaped his burden, holding 
With two clenched fists of steel. 



Longing. 97 



LONGING. 



Cruel and relentless fate, thy power 
Has driven me to foreign lands, 

Distant from my home and shady bower 
That weeping in the hamlet stands. 



There the haunts of solitude stood list'ning, 

Intent upon the airs I sung; 
And the perfumes of rich odors, nestling 

Within the verdant foliage, hung. 



Night came forth with all her wonted splendor 

Behind the black, eternal hills. 
Cast her wand'ring shadov. s soft and tender 

Upon the bed of winding rills. 



98 Longing. 

Nightingales soared in those lofty regions 
And sang above my country home; 

Chirping sparrows came in many legions 
And fluttered in the heaven's dome. 



O how happy were my childish pleasures, 
When in my veins a youthful blood 

Coursed through all my frame in steady meas- 
ures, 
And in my heart great joy did bud! 

Now I tarry where misfortunes hover, 

Where all is ruin and disgrace; 
Disappointed, I shall ne'er recover. 

No science can my pains efface. 



Nature here dissembles her bright vision ; 

The trees and flowers seem to scorn, 
Look askance at me with cold derision ; 

I feel, alas, I am forlorn. 



Longing. 99 

Oh, how can I reconcile the moments 
That called me to this cursed state! 

All these tears I shed in sad atonement; 
I must be gone ; 'tis not too late. 



Had not fond deception's clever motion 

Distorted pictures far away, 
How could I have tendered my devotion ? 

bring me home without delay ! 

Ah, thou happy, homelike village, 

1 know the softness of thy air! 
Now my mind is worried with thy image 

That drives me even to despair. 



Home of my pleasures, where my fathers wan- 
dered, 

I long to see thy shady haunts, 
Where in boyhood many times I sauntered, 

Molested not with grief and wants ! 

tOFC. 



100 Memory. 



MEMORY. 



What is man without a memory, 

Without that noble faculty? 

Where would he start, where would he end? 

Bygone labor — 'twould all be in vain ; 

The present — an eternal pain; 

He'd ever start and never end. 

What is man without a memory .? 



The Token. 101 



THE TOKEN. 

A youthful maid, serene and fair, 
With curling locks of golden hair, 

Upon a cold November day 

Passed through the dying fields to pray. 



Her eyes were cast upon the ground, 
Unconscious of the world around; 

Warm tears coursed down her pallid cheek ; 
She soon was tired, cold and weak. 



And yet she traveled on her way 

When morn turned into brightest day. 

For in the deep autumnal skies 

The sun gazed with his pleasant eyes. 



102 The Token. 

She came unto the arched gate, 
The universal door of fate; 

Distressed, she walked along the aisles 
Where Death his silent entry files. 



She heeds not one of all the graves. 
But in her soul she humbly craves 

For mercy, and her childish tears 
Accompany disturbing fears. 



She falls — she faints upon a heap. 
Beneath which rests in silent sleep 

Her father, dearer than the gold 

And wealth this wayward world can hold. 



At last she rose, more like a ghost ; 

And leaning on the marble post, 
Her outstretched arms she raises high 

And speaks unto the open sky: 



The Token. 103 

"I loved you with a tender heart, 
And yet, we two must ever part? 

Must part! Oh no, we meet once more 
Upon good heaven's happy shore! 



With pointed words you tempered me 

In holiness and chastity ; 
Your only wish was to behold 

Me purer than the molten gold ; 



I promised this beside your bed. 
My hand upon your dying head; 

Then kissed you as you smiled to me — 
Your soul went to eternity. 



And now it is again the day 

When death has taken you away- 

I'll plant this flower on thy grave, 
A token of the words I gave." 



104! The Dying Harpist. 



THE DYING HARPIST. 

Ye cooling winds, that now are floating 

In deep realms of peace and light, 
Like messengers of love, devoting 

Humble service to this wight, 
How oft with pleasure you would render 

Services you could deny ! 
My melodies, so youthful, tender, 

You transported to the sky. 

How oft my heart would bleed when singing, 

Thrilled with motions all divine! 
The tunes that from my harp came swinging 

Touched the pale moon's sprightly shine; 
Unnoticed, in the dark night's silence. 

When least noise my song retards, 
I plaj'ed rich tunes of shaded variance 

For the world of sleeping bards. 



The Dying Harpist. 105 

O how they listened with complacence, 

For they loved my sacred art! 
E'en hours tarried they in patience, 

For they adored me from their heart. 
They loved me for my burning passion. 

Bidding me come play and sing; 
I'd strike the chords with all devotion, 

Making them with sweetness ring. 

Alas, no more those tunes shall border 

On the brink of heaven's gate, 
For now my breath is growing shorter, 

Telling me it is too late! 
Once more I'll vent my choicest feeling 

On this old, worn instrument ; 
May it ascend with love, appealing 

To the open firmament ! 

There may my song diffuse its colors 

On the deep, ethereal blue, 
And dwindle on the hazy borders. 

Never to revive anew. 



106 The Dying Harpist. 

Farewell, my harp, farewell forever, 
No more thy soothing chords I'll strike! 

Another genius more clever 
May thy Siren notes invite! 



All Souls' Day. 107 



ALL SOULS' DAY. 

'TIs a day of heart-felt sorrow, 
For each Christian's memory 

Calls to mind the hallowed morrow 
Of eternal equity. 



Prayerful, throng the pious, weary. 
Bowed with languid sorrow's pain. 

Through rough streets and weather dreary. 
Guided to the holy lane. 



For they seek the cemetery 
Far beyond the city's crest. 

Where, within its sanctuary 
All is silence, all is rest. 



108 All Souls' Day, 

Noiselessly the tread of many 
Falls upon the sacred ground ; 

Decked with wreaths and flowers plenty 
Is each grave, each lonely mound. 



Ah, the pleading heart's devotion 
Panting in each Christian's breast ! 

Ah, the agonies, emotion, 

O'er the heaps where loved ones rest ! 



Here a youthful lover kneeling 
Near the object of his life; 

Here he writhes, his pain concealing 
In his heart's convulsive strife. 



There a child conjures the licaven 
And implores its mighty aid. 

For its father, mother, brethren 
Sleeping in the earth are laid. 



All Souls' Day. 109 



Yonder Is some worn Inscription 
Faded through a mould'ring time, 

Epitaphs so quaint in diction, 
Flowing in an olden rhyme. 



In a sad, neglected comer. 

Covered with wild, creeping grass. 

Hide the graves, where ne'er a mourner 
Nor indulging friend will pass. 



There a willow, sadly weeping, 
Casts its shadow on the ground. 

Sighing o'er the body sleeping 
In the cell beneath the mound. 



And below Its mystic cover 

Moans a pure and loving heart ; 

'Tis the dead boy's aged mother. 
Who are both now torn apart. 



110 All Souls' Day. 

Oh, she knows her son lay buried 
In the prime of golden j^ears! 

Now her heart is greatly worried 
And her breast is filled with fears. 



How her aged body's broken, 

Daunted by deep pain and grief! 

And she lifts her arms, invoking 
All the heavens for relief. — 



Night has called; the shades are weeping, 
And the living homeward go — 

Who will be the next one sleeping 
In the silent sod below ? 



The Toiler. Ill 



THE TOILER. 

A pressing weight of centuries' honest toil 
Contorts thy body to a drooping frame ; 
The imprint of a bold exertion stamps 
A never-fading tale upon thy brow — 
But is it misery's agonizing pain 
Or abject ruin that confronts thy mind? 
Where is that low, unskillful bent of thought, 
That specimen of rude stupidity? 

Thy drooping stature and its tempered mould. 

Characteristic of a sturdy clan, 

Are emblems of a brave humility 

That bows without remonstrance to thy God. 

Not yet misled by uncouth principles, 
Devoid of all bombastic subtilty 
Yon weak and flimsy generations breathe. 
Thou clim.best up to immortality; 



112 The Toiler. 

Behold, corruption's instrument engraved 
Those empty features on yon wayward race! 
Upon thy mien the stamp of vigor rests ; 
Thou hast the substance of a genuine man. 
We greet thee, Nature's mighty paragon. 
For unawares thou art her ancient type. 



'Tis true, thou art oppressed with wrongful aim. 

And forced to yield to circumstance's strife 

Beneath a cruel hand of destiny; 

But never, never art thou slave of man ! 

The labor of thy long-enduring hand 

Sustains a world of self-conceited fools. 



Rejoice! Original design of God 
Has made thee subject to this stubborn soil; 
Thy pure, immortal soul shall one day bring 
Its sweet and magic fragrance undefiled 
Into those realms of happiness above! 



Resurrection. 113 



RESURRECTION. 



Raise thy voice in songs of greeting, 
Let it ring through field and vale, 

Let thy heart, quick measures beating, 
All this life of Spring inhale! 



For the morning winds, caressing 
Circle 'round each moving blade. 

And they lavish all their blessing, 
And each blooming nook invade. 



Flowers lift their glaring color 
High above the sprouting glebe, 

Nature now has donned her splendor 
From the hill-tops to the mead. 



114 Resurrection. 

List unto the bird a-singing, 
Singing with its modest voice! 

How its echoes, faintly ringing, 
Make our sleepy veins rejoice! 



Life displays her fairest vision 
From the germinating sod, 

And cold Winter's last impression 
Hangs upon the mountain-top. 



Waves unfurl eternal motion, 

Break against the sloping shore; 

And the sands along the ocean 
Roll beneath their ceaseless roar. 



Studded in those vaulted regions, 
Deep within unfathomed skies. 

Smile the stars, uncounted legions ; 
Silver moon the night defies. 



Resurrection. 115 

Long I yearned for peaceful hours, 
Hours that would bring no pain ; 

Now they come with all the flowers 
Growing quickly on the lane. 



Raise thy voice in songs of greeting, 
Let it ring through field and vale ! 

Let thy heart, quick measures beating, 
All this life of Spring inhale! 



116 Lachrymae, 



LACHRYMAE. 

With the dawn of early morn, 

When half awake, the twilight beams, 
E'er Nature's slumb'ring soul is torn 

From her couch of woodland dreams, 
Let me seek a hidden nook 

Beyond the pale of human eye. 
That but the night alone may look 

Down upon the tears I cry. 

When yon waking fields grow bright. 

And motley flowers playfully 
Are shaking off the waning night; 

When they breathe that purity 
Living in the cloudless sphere, 

Then will I sink my drooping mind 
Into the dew-drops, sparkling, clear; 

There my tears shall refuge find. 



Lachrymae. 117 

All around me Nature seems 

A veritable dream of joy ; 
Midst thousand pleasures, gaudy scenes, 

Nothing can my sense decoy ; 
In the deep, broad firmament 

Those glittering gems flash fiery eyes ; 
Alas, they shall but see mine bent 

On the soil that never dries ! 



Through the dreary long of night 

Let music's melancholy pierce, 
That it my passion may excite, 

Flood my cheeks with burning tears. 
Leave me in my weeping state! 

My soul is bathed in unknown grief; 
Oh, who will e'er divine my fate? 

Who will bring my soul relief? 



118 To a Little Boy. 



TO A LITTLE BOY. 



Show me the beautiful and grand, 

The noble and sublime, 

What else can then my soul demand. 

What aught is more divine? 

Such is the breath that steals away 

From out the bosom of my God, 

The twinkling of some glorious ray 

Illumining the soil I trod. 

My eyes may rest where'er they will, 

Some beauty must my sense instil 

With love, that oft can find no bounds. 

For fiery passion bums and pounds, 

Throbbing within my aching breast, 



To a Little Boy. 119 



Arising like a munnuring 
To mad and hollow thundering, 
Rolling above the mountain's crest; 
Thus do I live no more for aught 
But passion burning deep within; 
Is it a crime, is it a sin? 



One image haunts me day and night — 

'Tis thine, my youthful boy, 

So forcibly engraved, so bright, 

Untainted with a base alloy. 

Thou dost combine 

Most noble qualities — 

The perfect and divine 

Of human properties. 

Yet art thou but of tender age; 

Why should my love of thee transcend 

Love's ordinary flight of rage? 

Why should such admiration blend 

The choicest feelings of my heart 

To love, which words would fain impart? 



120 To a Little Boy. 

My love is not of meaner grade, 
That which the senses only know ; 
For all the senses' pleasures fade 
When their affecting objects go. 
Mine is a love that will combine 
The moral and the physical, 
A love that seeks Avhat is divine, 
The noble and the beautiful. 



How oft my eyes were fairly dazed 

With beauty's magic sheen; 

But what has more my passion crazed 

Then thou, thy perfect mien ! 

When first m.y studious eye 

Beheld thy youthful form, 

A masterpiece of Nature's art. 

The poetry of her own heart, 

Methought, thou must defy 

Her common norm. 

Was it not those expressive lines 

Drawn sharply in thy face, 



To a Little Boy. 121 

Thy feminine beauty, which refines 

But chosen creatures of a race — 

Was it not tliis which caught my sense? 

Did not my love grow more intense 

When at thy side, with scrutinizing gaze, 

My soul could feast upon thy face? 

Why should I not have been 

Enamoured of such harmony? 

The velvety softness of thy skin 

Nor dread disease nor malady 

Would cruelly harm 

Its silken charm. 

Hath e'er two lips such winning smile. 

Hath e'er a voice more radiant sound, 

With power to soothingly beguile 

The most unmusical around? 

How much more then complacently 

The cultured ear 

Doth hear 

Its sweet and simple melody, 

Much sweeter than the melodies 

A-winding through yon distant trees, 



122 To a Little Boy. 

More love-inspiring in its hannony 

Than the eternal murmuring of the sea. 

Though thunderbolts disturb the sky 

And hurricanes sweep madly through the air, 

A voice so sweet, so gentle, calm and rare 

Must even them defy. 

Two sparkling gems of blue and gray 

Beneath thy shapely forehead play; 

Two wistful ej^es, so innocent. 

That know no false, no mean intent; 

Two little windows, clean and pure. 

Wherein love whispers healthful dreams; 

Two mirrors that reflect soft beams 

From out their animating lure. 

When thy bright features playfully 

A winning smile do condescend; 

My heart — it quickens nervously. 

And all my soul with joy is bent. 

Ah, when I look into those lustrous orbs 

Where glowing love absorbs 

The sunlight's living beam, 

I see a nobler image gleam, 



To a Little Boy. 123 

An image of the soul, that shows 
Thy inner self — thy own reality, 
From which exterior action flows, 
The imprint of thy personality! 

If ever Nature loved her own, 
'Twas thee, 'twas almost thee alone. 
When she infused that penetrating mind. 
So nobly fitted to a noble kind. 
She saw thy true physique, a pearl of art, 
Grew highly pleased, and drew apart 
This special favor of nobility. 
That thus thou mightest perfect be. 

Within thy heart blooms virtue's fragrant flower, 

Nursed on the soil of piety, 

Matured within the warm and pleasant bower, 

The home of angel purity. 

Yet there is not a quality thy own. 

No glittering gem to thee unknown. 

Still thou wilt hold them all in modesty, 

And clothe them in the garb of true humility. 



IM To a Little Boy. 

Have I not reason to extend my love 
To such creation, perfect and ideal? 
Is there a deeper earthly joy above 
The pleasures man is wont to feel 
In him who is so beautiful 
In th' moral and the physical? 

Could I but follow thee 

E'en to the dreary path of silver age, 

To read each living page 

Of thy ensuing history ! 

For though thou be of tender age, 

My love of thee, dear boy, transcends 

Love's ordinary flight of rage. 

And highest admiration blends 

The choicest feelings of my heart 

To love, these words would fain impart. 



Onward. 125 



ONWARD. 

Let progress, prosperity, bloom o'er the land ! 
Mankind must unite with its governing hand ! 
Let nations and people of every clime 
Join in the wild chase of this wide-awake time ! 
We'll solve the bold problems of matter and 

force, 
Burst open the safe with its unopened doors ; 
Behind them, the secrets of Nature, this world, 
Lie buried and written on scrolls yet unfurled. 
'Tis life and activity, patience and thought, 
'Tis energy, power and will that have wrought 
Great things amongst men; not by hazard or 

chance 
Do mighty and powerful nations advance. 
For history is rooted in ages gone by ; 



126 Onward. 

Beneath the vague thoughts of our forefathers 

lie 
Some unexplored treasures of practical lore; 
Stir up, ye great men of the world, this big 

store 
Of glimmering coals, that awaits but the breath 
Of genius to wake it from imminent death ! 
Inventions shall come, and the thoughtful shall 

find 
Sopie means and devices of every kind 
To lighten the troublesome burden of man, 
For hardship must vanish and be under ban. 
Utility's aim and necessity's force 
Shall open inventions' unlimited course ! 
Let progress, prosperity, bloom o'er the land ! 
Mankind must unite with its governing hand ! 
Let nations and people of every clime 
Join in the wild chase of this wide-awake time ! 



Wireless Telegraphy. 127 



WIRELESS TELEGRAPHY 



Dost thou believe that man is wond'rous wise? 

Learn from the past ; it knows not a disguise ; 

For man's the greatest mimic ever known ; 

Few things, if any, he can call his own ; 

Whate'er in man is noble and sublime 

Is imitation of the true divine ; 

In Nature he must seek the right ideal, 

For she's the living model of the real ; 

When man would seek original to be 

And cease to find in Nature's majesty 

The fountain and the source of all his thought, 

He's then a bold imposter, good for naught. 

Give us excitement, cries the world, the new ; 

To yesterday's cold past we bid adieu; 

Gone is the year, and interest finds no charm, 

Save in the present's clamorous alarm. 



128 Wireless Telegraphy. 

But man, why shouldst thou be so weak of mind? 
Oh erring man, despite thy pride, thou'll ever 

find, 
There's nothing new beneath the mighty sun ; 
All things exist ; there's nothing left undone ! 
E'en when a clever genius has found 
How delicate and unseen waves of sound 
Can reach remotest lands with nimble ease. 
Cross o'er a thousand miles of rocking seas — 
Remember, e'er such subtle thought was formed 
Its ancient model Nature long adorned. 
E'er man has found inventions' bubbling source 
That slowly led us to its present course, 
Two telegraphic stations long were known 
Between the human heart and God alone. 
No apparatus, be it e'er so new. 
Can be as perfect as the heart is true. 
Though winds may hoAvl, and storms may rage. 
Though earth and skies a bitter war may wage, 
Though lightnings in the shaking heavens flash, 
Impassioned by gigantic thunders' clash- 
Be calm, O saintly heart, O sinful heart, 



Wireless Telegraphy. 129 

Thy loving God is near thee, where thou art! 
In peace, in war, by day, by darkest night, 
Upon the sea, without a beacon light ; 
Away from home, far off in heathen lands, 
On lone Sahara's burning, choking sands — 
Be calm, O saintly heart, O sinful heart. 
Thy loving God is near thee where thou art ! 
Beside the hearth that heats thy humble room. 
Tossed in the gaping gulf of worldly doom, 
In joy, succeeded by life's torturing woes, 
In perfect health, in agonizing throes — 
Be calm, O saintly heart, sinful heart. 
Thy loving God is near thee, where thou art ! 



Send Him thy message humble, and beseech 
A favor ; safely shall thy prayers reach. 
Rejoice then, saintly heart, O sinful heart. 
Thy loving God is near thee where thou art ! 



130 My Childhood Days, 



MY CHILDHOOD DAYS. 

How sweet were the days of my childhood, 

Those years how they glided away ! 
How tender the lips of dear mother, 
That taught me, poor infant, to pray ! 



How sweet were the days of my childhood. 
Abounding with heavenly joy! 

An angel, I lay in the cradle, 
A dear little, innocent boy. 



How sweet were the days of my childhood. 
When mother would kiss me to sleep ; 

Would watch me with patience, devotion. 
Caress me and joyfully weep ! 



My Childhood Days. 131 

How sweet were the days of my cliildhood, 
I knew neither trouble nor pain ; 

Indeed, I was happy, thrice happy ; 
Who'll bring me my childhood again ! 



How sweet were the days of my childhood, 
Ah, thanks that I could not divine 

That n.anhood must reap so much sorrow 
Upon life's headlong decline ! 



How sweet were the days of my childhood, 

Alas, I recall them in vain ! 
This tumult of life is depressing; 

O, give me my childhood again ! 



132 America, 



AMERICA. 



America, the greatest of the world! 

Upon thy soil all nations have unfurled 
The glory of our own United States ! 

Who knows thee, loves thee, and relates 
Thy grandeur to the world's unbounded sphere. 

We sing, a hundred million voices clear 
Thy praise and honor, and extol thy fame, 

And all thy children glory in thy name ! 

Though others welcome us with open arms, 
America has all the winning charms ; 

Great are her deeds, and greater still her aim ; 
Her faith Is strong ; her many hopes the same ; 

Her charity Is growing day by day ; 
America's my home, and there I'll stay ! 



America. 133 

America, the greatest of all lands ! 

Thou art the youngest with the strongest 
hands ! 
And with gigantic strides this nation grows 

The greatest wealth and men a country shows ; 
Though yet a child, we saw thee creep 

Unto thy glory with one bounding leap ; 
In genius mighty, there is not a place 

That leads America in any race ! 

Though others welcome us with open arms, 
America has all the winning charms ; 

Great are her deeds, and greater still her aim ; 
Her faith is strong ; her many hopes the same ; 

Her charity is growing day by day ; 
America's my home, and there I'll stay ! 



134! Remorse. 



REMORSE. 

Wilt thou not, Lord of Mercy, hoar my prayer 

And mitigate the curse that weighs upon my 
mind? 

Dost thou not recognize, O blooming forest 
proud, 

The youth that sauntered through thy winding 
ways. 

Thou, who'd often beckon and invite me to im- 
bibe 

The balm and spirit of thy dreamy atmosphere, 

When scenting roses of an ever-laughing May 

Would stop me to inhale their perfumed breath? 

And thou, my tiny rivulet, how often have I 
watched 

The living net of waves that winds would cast 
o'er thee, 



Remorse, 135 

Art thou so savage-like to cast me thus away? 
Poor man is but an alien on these shores, 
For friends are few that really offer love. 
Abominable fate! How hast thou spread thy 

sails, 
And driven me, surrounded with entangling 

snares, 
Into the haunts of sin and crime, 
Which brought destruction to my very soul! 
Why should I still abide upon this earth, 
Alone, an outcast of my friends, society, 
That scorn my presence with their wrathful eyes ? 
Will none alleviate the horrors of my mind? 
Must father, mother, brother, sister, heed my 

sight, 
Will none of all my kin show sympathy ? 
Ah, happy days, when I could press a kiss 
Upon my little mother's tender lips, 
Upon my mother's lips, that often told her boy 
To follow on the path of righteousness ! 
can it be, that she still tread this earth, 



136 Remorse. 

Or hath the grievance of my crime so cut her 

heart 
As to dissect its very cords in twain ? 
Compassion! Whisper but a friendly word! 
No one? Not even one will come and say, 
I am thy friend? 

Ah, now I wish to die, to leave the birds of prey 
Encircle me, and hack my body into thousand 

shreds, 
That not a stone may tell my cursed name ; 
These drooping willows, let them hum 
Their mournful airs for my eternal peace ; 
For me there's no more rest, save in eternity. 



Duty Before Pleasure, 137 



DUTY BEFORE PLEASURE. 

When duty calls us from our haunts of pleasure, 
When pleasure's madness would not see us 
leave, 

'Tis with repugnance we discard the leisure 
That thought not of a parting pain and grief. 

Who will not dread the short and painful hour 
Though higher aims in life he doth intend? 

Wilt thou alone possess the cruel power 
To brave emotion near a life-long friend.'* 

Ah, parting always finds a cause for sorrow ! 

Our hearts beat fast, our aching pains en- 
hance. 
And pierce the sorrowed soul, the inmost marrow, 

When memories roll by of old romance. 



138 Duty Before Pleasure. 

The morning wakes us with her melancholy 
greeting ; 

And night was in a rage of hostile dreams ; 
We cannot but detest the farewell meeting ; 

Heart-rending are its many wounding scenes. 

Days, that have melted in sweet pleasure, floated 
Like burning winds before our moistened eyes ; 

Our hearts and souls on all their sweetness 
gloated ; 
We drank the spirit of their cordial ties. 

Ah, leave them now to serve a higher duty ! 

How can we shun their innocent delight .'' 
Must we relinquish all their idle beauty, 

And break away from them through sudden 
flight.? 

Adieu, our homes, our friends, our dearest! 

With you forever we may not remain ; 
Away we must — though we are nearest 

Your hearts — we leave you — 'tis with silent 
pain. 



My Littk Frknd, the Stove, 139 



MY LITTLE FRIEND, THE STOVE. 

Tossing out of dreamless slumber — 
'Twas one Winter, I remember, 

We arose, a goodly number 

When the bell rang half-past five. 



And we heard all things a-shaking 
When we boys were all a-waking — 

With a few exceptions taking 
Longer rest within their beds. 



Fierce and cold, the North-wind battered. 
Doors and windows madly clattered, 

Drifts of blinding snow-flakes scattered 
Up against the rattling panes. 



140 My Little Friend, the Stove. 

Though the winds were fiercer blowing 
And the heavens ever snowing, 

In my modest study, glowing, 
Smiled my little friend, the stove. 



Oh, it seemed a world of blessing 
When I saw those flames a-pressing 

From the gas-stove! Who'd be guessing 
That I was a happy man? 



All my shiv'ring frame had shuddered. 
And no words my blue lips uttered — 

Save a whisper — all I uttered 
To my little friend, the stove. 



Then I crept into a comer. 
Not a little Johnny Horner; 

But a silent, sullen mourner 

Crouching near the cracking stove. 



My Little Friend, the Stove. 141 

Hail thee, gentle flame, ascending 
From the stove, so nimbly bending 

'Round the frozen pipes, and sending 
Forth such soothing light and heat! 



But the air grew colder, colder; 

Boreas waxed bolder, bolder, 
And my frame from shoe to shoulder 

Shivered, shook behind the stove. 



Time I had to timely ponder, 
And I then began to wonder 

How our neighbors over yonder 

Circled 'round their glowing stoves. 



Ah, I saw them all a-smiling. 

For the coal was burning, piling. 

Whilst I shook, with pain beguiling 
Hours, wrapped in blankets warm. 



142 My Little Friend, the Stove. 

Oft I peered Into the fire 

Praying that it might grow higher; 
But alas — it seemed to tire 

Of its ancient charity. 



For the flame grew smaller, slimmer, 
And its bluish light went dimmer, 

Fading 'way — a dying glimmer — 
Choking in the frosty air. 



Yes, my little friend, forever 
Kind and gentle, hostile never. 

Seemed forsooth to rudely sever 
All his former bond of love. 



Thus I sat, so sad, forsaken, 

With no hope ; who could awaken 

Life, that Nature's law had taken 
From the flame that now was dead? 



My Little Friend, the Stove. 14)3 

Then I swore by God and Nation, 

I would want no innovation; 
That there's none so good relation 

As the glowing stove with coal. 



144! Ungratefulness, 



UNGRATEFULNESS. 



Lend thou the world thy mighty hand, 
Thy Hfe and all thy gain — 

No recompense! But a cruel wand 
Will drive thee from thy domain. 



New-Year. 145 



NEW-YEAR. 

Time dies with unnoticed measures, 
Vanishing Hke tinted clouds, 

Never resting with our leisures. 

Fading with our grief and pleasures 
Like the twilight's misty shroud. 

'Tis eternal repetition 

Following the waves of time; 

Days and years sink to perdition 
And a century's bold ambition 
Dies beneath the tolling chime. 

Phantoms, dreams and recollections 
Occupy our whirling brains ; 

Youthful pictures and affections 
Idle hours and dilections 
Mingled with disturbing pains. 



146 New-Year. 

All our good deeds, still remaining, 
Lead us to a nobler shore ; 

Deeds of evil cast a staining 

Shadow on our paths, complaining 
To our conscience evermore. 

This our motto : seek perfection ; 
Learn to grasp the moment's force; 

Travel in a straight direction; 
Truth be our predilection. 
And to good our will coerce. 



The Approach. 147 



THE APPROACH. 



The waning sun still casts his fading light 

Upon the tired hemisphere; 
He darts his pointed arrows left and right, 

Sheds now and then a golden tear. 



Ah, soon he vanishes behind the shore ; 

His garments fade like roses' hue; 
The day created by him is no more. 

For dusk is breaking through the blue. 

Behold dear Nature's friend be^^ond the hill! 

He's bathing in the troubled sea ; 
Does not this overwhelming sight thee thrill 

And waft thy soul to ecstasy? 



148 The Approach. 

Once more the hollocausts of Nature burn 
High on the mountain's slender peak, 

Imploring heaven for the sun's return, 
Ere Nature wakes from healthful sleep. 



The ocean sings its ancient lullaby. 

And splashing waves keep up their race; 

Ah, hear their musical monotony 

When white-caps join in endless chase! 

Now rest thine eyes upon the water's end; 

Behold the panorama there — 
How prismatic colors in the heavens blend 

With all the soapy waters fair ! 

In constant variation grows the sky ; 

In truth, it's weeping tears ; 
Once more the sun peeps 'round, then bids good- 
bye — 

He turns his face ; he disappears. 



The Approach. 149 

With love two hearts in joy and mirth unite, 

For thus I see the setting sun 
Assimilating with the waters bright; 

All now is night — the day is done. 



150 The Invitation. 



THE INVITATION. 



See, the snow-white angels resting 
O'er the manger, rough and cold ! 

Listen to their songs of greeting 
Over all the land unfold ! 



Hark, the angels' choir chanting, 
How it warms the snow-fed air ! 

'Roused, the humble shepherds, panting 
Down to Bethlehem repair. 

Ah, sweet angels' voices calling : 
"Peace unto your timid clan, 

Let this sight not be appalling, 
We bring joy to every man ! 



The Invitation. 151 

Peace! For centuries of yearning 
Dying 'neath a strong-winged time 

Longed to greet this hallowed morning 
Of the birth of God Divine. 

Go ye to the cave deserted ; 

In a manger filled with straw 
Ye will find the God-Child girded, 

Saviour in the new-born law. 

Glory be to God in heaven, 

And to men of goodly will 
Let His holy peace be given, 

That the earth with joy be full!" 



152 Nature*s Song. 



NATURE'S SONG. 



The moonlight threw its silken beams 

Upon the dozing plains ; 
It poured a flood of radiant streams 

All o'er the sloping lanes. 



A blue transparency on high 
Hung lightly o'er the waves, 

And straying clouds cast with a sigh 
Their ever-changing shades. 



hark ! What soft vibrations sound ! 
'Tis music fills the air; 

1 hear rich voices, deep and round 

Sing melodies so rare. 



Nature*s Song. 153 

Each note, so pure, so full and clear, 

Resounding o'er the hills. 
Finds refuge in my list'ning ear 

And all my body thrills. 



I hear the song's rich harmony, 
Enjoy its ardent touch; 

The motions of its melody 
Were never, never such. 



It died like fainting echoes long, 
That smothered in the air — 

'Twas all imagination's song 
Had rendered it so fair. 



154 To the Moon. 



TO THE MOON. 

Like a silver sheet 
In the deep, deep skies, 
See her gently rise 
Through the milky street; 
With a smile so fair 
On her noble brow 
When the clouds all plow 
Through the evening air ; 
Now then hidden, lost 
On the starry coast 
By a wandering cloud 
In its flutt'ring shroud; 
And again in view ; 
Like a bashful child 
She sweetly smiled 
Through the azure blue, 



To the Moon. 155 

Peeping o'er the streams 
Of the wide, wide world 
As they lay unfurled 
To her playful beams ; 
With a wayward look 
And a sinister glance 
She dares peep askance 
'To the lovers' nook ; 
In her naughty eyes 
I can read her mind, 
And her wish surmise — 
Do not think we're blind ! 
Thou wouldst like to roam 
On this merry earth. 
Join in all our mirth, 
Make it thy real home. 



156 To Music. 



TO MUSIC. 



Ring, ring on, O wistful Music 
Playing in the dreamy night; 

Fill my soul with heaven's magic, 
Peal thy chords in airy flight! 



Waves that flow in unknown language. 

Passion of a flaming soul, 
Send thy murmur's hidden message 

When the low-winds briskly roll! 



Silver strains, in unseen motion. 
Mould the feelings of my heart, 

Gladden all like the surceasing 
Showers of cool Summer rain. 



To Music. 157 

Rise, like perfumed vapors, flying 

Through the woodland's gladd'ning smile; 
Send us all thy merry greeting. 

And our weary thoughts beguile. 



Breathe thy charming, rich effusion 
Through each bosom's flowing veins, 

Where the glorious, bright illusion 
Of thy colored rhyme remains. 



Shade thy notes with modulations, 
Pour them out in melodies 

Varied like the undulations 
Rising, falling in the trees. 



Ring, ring on, O wistful Music 
Playing in the dreamy night ; 

Fill my breast with heaven's magic, 
Peal thy chords in airy flight ! 



158 Contemplation. 



CONTEMPLATION. 



In the forest's winding pathways 
Midnight looks with solemn gaze, 
Where amidst refreshing odors 
Luna darts her blushing rays ; 
When the leaves poetic whisper 
Lulls all life to dreaming sleep, 
And the brooklet's melancholy 
Echoes down the gloomy deep ; 
There I'll rest me in the bower 
Vaulted with the fir-trees' crown, 
And entwine my heart in pleasure, 
Ravished by the scenes around ; 
Where the undulating mountains 
Climb into the hanging clouds, 



Contemplation. 159 

And the amber tinge of Luna 
Floats from heaven like a shroud, 
Lighting up the slender hilltops 
Pointing to the starlit night — 
In the forest's winding pathway, 
During Midnight's solemn gaze, 
There I long to rest my spirit, 
Contemplating Nature's ways. 



